


Metamorphosis

by neutralize



Series: Personal Favorites [3]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: Arora-chichou | Alola, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Dream Decapitation, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Nightmares, Pokemon Sun & Moon Spoilers, Post-Game, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, Violence, Vomit Mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-29 20:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10143338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neutralize/pseuds/neutralize
Summary: His mother comes to his hotel door for three days without fail, and Guzma turns her away with threats they both know he won't keep. But on the fourth day, her preserverance wears him down, and he finally relents to let her in, glowering. She has more Tapu Cocoa in hand - this time, it's in a metal thermos. She wilts at the state of the room."It's not gonna stay like this, so don't do me like that," he says haughtily. "I don't need my other parent to tell me they're disappointed in me."Guzma's transition from criminal life to a semi-normal one, and how the people in his life make it simultaneously better and worse.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A few pointers: one, both Lillie and Lusamine are tagged here, but don't actually appear in the story, so to speak - sorry if you wanted to see dysfunctional mother-daughter relationships, you hit it close, but no cigar - two, if/when Moon gets a default name, this will be updated to reflect that. Finally, an aside: I like wholesome, ridiculous but dangerous Guzma as much as the next guy, but there's a definite dearth of serious, introspective fic of him. Maybe I'm not looking hard enough, or just haven't vibed with what I've come across.

Guzma stumbles into his house unceremoniously, and in broad daylight, no less - something like surprise registers when he jiggles the handle and it's unlocked, but he's too exhausted to think into it. His parents' reactions, on the other hand, are not surprising: his mother screams, dropping whatever she was making prior, and his dad jumps up from the couch with a start.

"The hell are you," his father yells.

"Guzma," his mother breathes.

"I'm going to bed," he manages to get out, fumbling for his bedroom's doorknob, "and neither of you better wake me up." He hears his father say something, his mother shriek, and chaos erupts behind the closed door, but he doesn't care. Guzma feels heavy, far too heavy, as he collapses on the bed - did the bed always smell this weird? - and hopes this time, he doesn't dream of glittering obsidian, and cold, clammy tentacles.

\--

The room is dark and fuzzy when he opens his eyes again. He presses his face into the pillows, and when he realizes they're indeed pillows, not heaps of old, dirty clothing, he jolts up with one realization: this time, he really fucked up returning home.

He hears a flutter of wings, and his masquerain lands on his shoulder, gently nuzzling him. "Stop that," he grumbles, but the pokemon doesn't relent, and he doesn't he bat it away. At the end of his bed is his ariados, and Golisopod is slumped at the doorway. He scratches the back of his neck; it's sweaty, and he wonders how long he's been asleep.

He stretches, and walks toward the door - it's useless delaying the inevitable.

"Scoot," he tells the golisopod, and it does, albeit warily. When Guzma leaves his room, the scene before him, for a brief second, is normal - his dad is at the table, reading a paper, his mom flitting away in the kitchen. But the illusion quickly dies when all three meet each others' gazes.

"Guzma," his father says, stiffly. He gestures to an empty seat. His mother looks at Guzma imploringly, fearfully. He focuses back on his father, whose stare is just as venomous as he remembers, before begrudingly taking a seat.

"What's up," Guzma says in the most neutral tone he can muster.

His father's eyes narrow. "Not the time to be a smart aleck, Guzma."

"I wasn't," he replies, aggression creeping into his tone. His father's posture becomes rigid; his mother joins the table, drinks in hand. She places one in front of her husband, and one in front of Guzma.

"Didn't recognize you at first, with your hair." Guzma takes a long, slow sip of his Tapu Cocoa, not taking the bait - it takes off some pressure in his neck, but not enough to be comfortable. Instead, he shrugs. 

"Got some white hairs growing in, so I figured I'd give 'em some company."

"I see. And have you been out training, since you've been gone?"

"Maybe."

"Are you planning on staying home now?"

"I might." There's a pregnant pause. If it weren't happening to him, Guzma would be cackling at how comically suffocating the tension is.

"If you are," his father says, straightening his spine and closing his paper, "then we're going to get a couple things straight around here. To start, I'm going to emphasize how lucky you are I'm not pressing charges after that incident you and I had before you decided to skip town. That being said, I haven't forgotten any of that."

"Keep your hands off me, and I'll keep my mitts off you," Guzma snaps, and whatever calming effect the Tapu Cocoa had evaporates - his body buzzes with adrenaline, feeling the pulse in his neck pick up speed.

"Don't interrupt me, Guzma," is his father's cool retort; Guzma sucks in a defiant breath, in a vain attempt to not feel like his neck is going to burst open. "As I was saying, we're going to get some things established here. Firstly, if you want to stay here, you're going to have a nice, hard look on what respect means around here. And you're going to be giving it out a lot more than you have in the past."

Guzma grits his fists so hard, his knuckles turn white; out of the corner of his eye, he sees his mother shrink, bracing herself for the inevitable fallout. For some reason, the sight of her makes more anger bubble up inside him. "Is that it?"

"No. Those clubs over there." His father gestures past him. "The ones you decided to ruin that night. I want them replaced."

If his father says anything else, Guzma doesn't hear it; his hand makes contact with the mug faster than his mind can catch up and he hits it as hard as he possibly can. The drink flies past his father's shoulder, the mug itself missing but the drink splashing all over his face, before it violently smashes against the front door. _Fuck that, fuck you_ , is all he can scream as he bolts for the front door, ears ringing as his father shouts back more obscenities over his mother's howls.

Guzma all but tears down the door to the hotel steps away; the receptionist tries to greet him, but he cuts her off: "Key. _Now_ ," and throws a wad of yen in her direction before taking the first key his hand swipes against the key rack.

Through a small stroke of convenient luck, the key unlocks the second door he comes across. He tears himself inside and Guzma wastes no time decimating flowing curtains, soft still lifes, wicker chairs. He stops only when there's nothing left to mangle, but the itch is still there, maddening as ever.

Guzma remains wide awake that night, hoping something else destroys him instead.

\--

His mother comes to his hotel door for three days without fail, and Guzma turns her away with threats they both know he won't keep. But on the fourth day, her preserverance wears him down, and he finally relents to let her in, glowering. She has more Tapu Cocoa in hand - this time, it's in a metal thermos. She wilts at the state of the room.

"It's not gonna stay like this, so don't do me like that," he says haughtily. "I don't need my other parent to tell me they're disappointed in me."

"Your father is very sorry for the way he's acted towards you," she tells him instead, hands crossed in her lap. Guzma just stares beyond her, keeping his sight fixed on the peeling wallpaper behind her. He doesn't remember if the wallpaper had already been like that. "I know you don't believe it, but he is."

He unscrews the top of the thermos and lets the aroma waft over the room. Shivers crawl up his spine. "If the old man were that sorry, he'd tell me himself, and not send you. Just sayin'."

"He didn't think you'd listen if it were him, instead of me." Guzma isn't going to admit that she's right, at least not out loud, so he opts for a drink instead. The tension melts away from his shoulders, and he lets out a slow exhale. He's had Tapu Cocoa all over Alola, but he likes his mother's version - creamy with Moomoo Milk, and just a touch of amaretto - the best, although he's not up for admitting that, either.

"Yeah, well," he mumbles, but his words trail off. "He's stupid," is the best he can come up with, after a beat.

"Stubborn. I think you're looking for the word stubborn," she says, a faint smile curving her lips. "Much like another boy in my life that I know."

"Tch. You're trippin'." Guzma tips the rim of the thermos into his mouth and downs the rest of the cocoa in a gulp.

"I did talk to your father, though," she continues, gingerly taking the thermos from Guzma, "and he said he's willing to keep peace in the house if - "

"Ma. I'm not staying. Hate to break it to ya, but it's just not happening."

"But Guzma - "

"Listen," he cuts her off; the look on his face must be especially fierce, because she winces. He sighs, and tries again. "It's real nice of you to think of me and all that crap, but you really are trippin' if you think I'm gonna stay in that house and everything's gonna be hunky-dory."

A heavy silence falls between them; Guzma hopes she doesn't ask where he's planning to stay, because he doesn't know either. Finally, his mother says, "Well, will you at least drop in every once in a while, just so I know you're all right?"

"No promises."

"Can you try, Guzma?"

The soft lilt in her voice when she says his name sparks a jolt of annoyance, and the stupid look on her face, so calm and patient - and where was that expression three days ago, when he had some kind of use for it, anyway? - is enough for him to resign. For now. "Like I said," he repeats, although it doesn't sound as foreboding as he wants it to, "no promises. If I do, it won't be for long."

"I'm not asking for long, just a brief visit will do. Thank you, Guzma." She stands up, runs a tender hand through his hair, and leaves with a watery smile.

Guzma tosses more yen at the receptionist when he leaves soon after, wondering if the extra he included will be enough to cover what he couldn't tidy up. His stomach is in knots, and his scalp is itching.

\--

_Nanu didn't look up from the meowths, haphazardly flicking beans to the floor. Guzma watched the pokemon pounce at them, impatient; he didn't have time for this._

_"You listening, old man?" he snapped. "I said I'm - "_

_"Heard you the first time, kid," was Nanu's response, swatting away a meowth digging its claws into his leg. "Good for you, I suppose. Not sure what you want me to say here."_

_"They'll be gone in a couple days, so you can have your shitty town back."_

_"Won't be counting. I'll take your word for it."_

_"This won't be the last you hear of me, but I got some words for you before I split. You're - "_

_"I think," Nanu interrupted, "you need to go back to Hau'oli." He turned towards Guzma, face deadpan, except for his eyes - there was an unmistakenable hardness, of course, but it was tinged with something else that made Guzma's breath catch, just a little._

_"You're whack," he muttered after a long beat. His lips curled into a sneer. "You're just - "_

_"Guzma." Nanu stepped forward; Guzma stepped back. "Listen, kid. It's not in your best interest to bluff, with me, of all people. In fact, why you came to tell me your intentions, I have no idea. If you're looking for praise or admonishment, you're going to have to look elsewhere. But while you're here, I might as well give you some advice. Go home. Start over. I don't know what happened to you in Ultra Space, but it's got you all shaken up. I see it in your demeanor."_

_"How did you - "_

_"I have my sources. I'm a cop, after all." Nanu reached out an arm, and put his hand on Guzma's shoulder; Guzma saw that look in his eyes again, and swung away from the other man, sick with fury. "I'm not going to say it again, kid," Nanu told him quietly, more gently._

_And Guzma turned heel, first walking briskly after he slammed the precinct doors so hard, they should have fallen off their hinges, then running - he ran past smashed lights, technicolor parapets, cigarette butts, garbage, and kept running only until his lungs and legs couldn't keep up with his racing mind any longer._

\--

Po Town is as desolate as ever when Guzma slinks in, which suits him; he didn't want to come back, of course, but the return is easier knowing there's no one else around to remind of an empire he once had.

Surprisingly enough, the front doors to the Shady House are locked, which is laughable, because the windows aren't. Guzma creeps through the dark, navigating his way through muscle memory, and eventually finds the room he once claimed his. The chest still remains, and Guzma flicks open the lid... and sees nothing.

He hears something clatter behind him, and he whirls around. A pair of gleaming eyes meet his, then more, everywhere he looks.

"Stupid cats," he growls, "I have the advantage. Try me."

He hears a hiss come from his bed; perched atop is a persian, lavender fur gleaming in what little light he has to work with. He feels it stare at him, through him.

Guzma makes sure to leave Po Town standing taller, more fierce. Maybe he isn't the king around this joint any longer, but he puts up the front, just in case someone, somewhere, is watching him after all.

\--

Guzma hates sleeping, not because he's vulnerable, but because whenever he dreams, they always end badly.

This dream is especially rough: he's laying in a field of pristine grass and it's bad, it's really bad, because the sky is serene and the air is calm, but he's frozen in place. Something unzips behind, and he feels his skin mimic the sound.

"Nice day to play a couple rounds," Lusamine says from up above, hair shining in the sunlight. She's holding a golf club in her hand, and he realizes her club is some grotesque congolmeration of his pokemon, the shaft made from his masquerain's wings and ariados' legs, golisopod's head as the the club's head. She clunks the club down. Guzma can hear the golisopod's mandibles click spasmically.

"Can't play without a ball, you crackpot," he snarls, as his heart pounds, and the look on Lusamine's face shifts to realization.

"How very silly of me. You're right."

She presses the club's head on the side of his temple, removes it, then presses again. "One."

Guzma feels the breath being sucked out of him, almost to the point of hyperventilation. Another gentle nudge to the side of his head. "Two."

The dream Lusamine is as sympathetic as the one in real life; she doesn't announce another number and Guzma feels his head split from his body with a sickening thwack. He wakes up screaming as hard as his lungs will tolerate, momentarily gagging, as vomit spills from his mouth and everywhere it can reach. He can hear the gentle lull of the ocean waves as he retches.

He gasps as loud as he can, and as quickly as it started to heave, his body shifts into a coughing spell that leaves him windless. Guzma's face sinks into the sand, and the grains of sand stick to spit and bile covering his lips, and he stays there, too worked up to sleep, too drained to move: another familiar night.

\--

_They never fought, but "had some words", as his father always put it. Tonight was no different: it was over something small, but it was one in a long list of tiny transgressions that had piled up into something ugly and dark, creating the perfect storm of resentment and distrust. There was something about the tone of his father's condescenion and exasperation that night that left Guzma livid in a way he didn't think was possible. Most fathers didn't dig at their kids' mistakes as much as his did, did they?_

_He had gone to bed early that night, simmering underneath a veneer of calm. The next time he left his room, it was past midnight and his father was asleep on the couch. Guzma had gone out for a drink of water, but he stopped to look at the sleeping form, and realized something sinister: there wouldn't be a better opportunity than now, before things somehow got worse._

_Guzma carefully unzipped the duffel bag, felt around for the thickest, heaviest club, and pulled it out with stealth. With silent steps he stood over his dad._

This is crazy, _he remembered thinking_ , you don't have to do this, and you don't have to be like him -

_But then he remembered words he heard on an almost daily basis, like some sick mantra: "Guzma! What is wrong with you?!" and decided, as the first swing came down on his father's temple, that he couldn't stop, and wouldn't, until either one of them was dead._

\--

It's evening again when he returns home. This time, his father answers the door; he gives his son a stern, stiff nod and lets him inside. His mother looks momentarily surprised, then her expression softens. "There's leftovers in the fridge, if you're hungry."

Guzma tries not to wolf down his food too quickly, what with his father's scrutinous stare, and even mumbles out a "thanks" before disappearing into his room.

Outside his bedroom door, he hears his father say, "I don't know how you manage to get him to come around. You've got some touch."

Guzma closes his eyes after he hears his mother respond, "It's like I've always told you, dear. Just be patient with him; he's trying."

\--

Gladion is the first to track Guzma down to Hau'oli's outskirts, appearing one day on his doorstep. "Well, well, well," Guzma says with a sneer, sizing him up, "look who it is, ready for a beatdown from big, bad Guzma! I'm surprised you found me here."

"I heard some rumors, and decided to investigate," Gladion tells him, frowning. "But that's not why I'm here. My sister wouldn't stop asking me about you, and since Moon isn't around to - "

"Hold up. Moon? What's her deal?"

"She's training in Poni to retake the Alolan League. Said she wasn't sure if her win was a fluke."

The pit in his stomach digs deep. Guzma has nothing for that, at least, not at first; he ripples, wondering how obvious his displeasure is. "So Kukui was able to get his dumb league, after all," he mumbles after a beat of silence. He scowls at Gladion. "Must be nice to goof around, without a care in the world."

"If you're talking about me, then no, I'm not either," Gladion replies. "I'm... I've decided to take over Aether, in my mother's place, since she's currently unable to. And Lillie is going to Kanto soon, to take care of her and training. We've been doing everything but goofing off."

"Tch. Whatever. Y'all trifling, anyway. Listen, do both of us the favor and scram, before I change my mind about not grinding you to a pulp."

Gladion shrugs, releasing a crobat from a pokeball. "Lillie says she'd like to see you once she's back from Kanto. I'll tell her you're here, if you don't mind."

"You better not, or else I'll..." Guzma begins to shout, before he trails off; Gladion and his crobat have already taken off with a thunderous flap of its wings, disappearing into the skyline. He stares at the form until they're tiny dots in his line of sight, before heading back inside to grab something.

"Come on," he tells his pokemon, after he's released them from their confines; they stare at him curiously, and he gestures outside. "We're training. We got places to be, asses to kick." 

In the wake of their happy trills, Guzma swaggers outside, thinking how nice it's going to be to hand Lillie's team to her on a platter, when she returns.

\--

"You look different. Almost didn't recognize you at first."

The sun is unusually bright in Hau'oli's cemetery today, so Guzma's using his shades the way they're supposed to, for once. Plumeria gives him a once-over, a frown on her thin lips. "All I did was take out the yellow for now," she says, absentmindedly looping her fingers around her hair. "I don't think I'm that unrecognizable without it. Jeez."

"Hey now, it ain't a diss. You know I wouldn't play you like that," Guzma tells her, clapping a hand on her shoulder. "Anyway, what's good? Been wondering what you're up to."

He swears he sees Plumeria flush; or, perhaps, it's a trick of the light. She opens her mouth to say something, closes it, then sighs, before flashing her wrist.

"A Z-ring," Guzma mutters, watching it glitter in the sunlight. "That's real nice. Whose ass did ya have to kick to get that?"

"No one's. It's mine," Plumeria answers. Guzma's stomach drops. "I decided to start clean, and I want to take on the league. But, Guzma, I think - "

For all her tough bravado, Guzma has always had a knack for reading her as easily as a book. He has enough decency to cut her off before she can finish. "Listen. It's nice you thought of me, but I don't want to come along. I can't. I got enough crap to deal with, and I need to stay low for a while. Thanks, anyway." He tacks on the last part as an awkward afterthought. The whole thing sounds graceless as hell. Fortunately for him, Plumeria's expression doesn't crack.

"Well... I figured you were gonna say that. It was worth a shot, though."

"Yeah. Sor - so, I'll see you around, I guess."

"Yeah, probably." Plumeria turns heel, and starts to walk away. But she stops, and says, "You know, it's not too late for you... either one of us, really. For what it's worth, I still think you're the strongest trainer around, and you could beat anyone you wanted."

"What is this, a sob fest? Man, get _outta_ here," Guzma grumbles, "and go beat some suckers down. For real."

Plumeria makes a noise, something halfway between a laugh and a sound of affirmation. Throws up a sign, and confidently strolls away.

Guzma watches her disappear into the shaking grass, wondering who else he has to play catch-up with.

\--

The pokeball shivers as he holds it in the palm of his hand; in his other, he reads blocky cursive on the flowery stationary: _Hi, Mr. Guzma! I hope you don't mind the letter, since my brother told me where you were. I'm having a lot of fun in Kanto. It's hard work, but it's worth it! I have a butterfree on my team named Rosa, and she did very well against Erika in Celadon City. I see why you like bug-types so much! Anyway, this little guy has been following me since Viridian City, and while I don't really have a place him on my team, I couldn't bear to box him up, so I thought I would send him your way. Take good care of him!_

Since when did she think she could be so chummy with him? Guzma presses the release on the pokeball - a normal one, no less, didn't she know Ultra Balls were better? - and a weedle tumbles into his lap. He rubs the side of its head with a finger, and it purrs. He would have to get a new pokeball for it later.

\--

"I'm not gonna be away training for that long," Guzma mumbles, feeling small under his mother's concerned stare. "But listen, Ma. There's gonna be a trainer that might come around here while I'm gone. Name's Moon. Small brat with black hair and a goofy hat. If she comes before I come back, give her this." His mother takes the TM from his hand, nodding.

"Well... I'm off," he says. "See you in a couple weeks." A pause. "Maybe."

His father clears his throat from behind him, and Guzma looks at him. "Good luck, Guzma," he says in a stilted tone.

"Tch. She's gonna need the luck, not me," he mutters after a beat, intending to make good on that threat.

\--

\--

Moon stares at Guzma, half wonderstruck, half expectant, then back to Hala, who's walking away. She opens her mouth to say something, but Guzma doesn't want to hear it, because there shouldn't be anything she has to say at this point.

"I ain't never gonna ask you to forgive me, so don't get it twisted - this ain't no apology! But shut up and take this!" Moon's reflexes are surprisingly on par as Guzma tosses her the Dawn Stone. She catches it, albeit clumsily. The stone sparkles in her hands, rainbows fanning on the ground.

"I got it for my first ever victory," he continues, "and it's always been like my lucky charm! So you better not go pawning it off for some quick cash, or you're gonna regret it." He gives her a pointed look, willing her to pick up what he's putting down. Moon's expression is uneasy, but it shifts to hesitant affirmation. She slips the stone in her pocket; maybe she isn't as naive as she lets on, after all.

"That was a really great fight," Moon says, sparing a glance at her exhausted team sprawled out in the grass. "You should go with Hala, Guzma. I think it'd be really good for you."

"Tch. Don't get all friendly with me, and don't tell me what to do," Guzma snaps. He takes a passing glance at Hala, whose stride has slowed, before staring intently back at her. "Who knows what the Alolan winds will bring? Next time we meet, I'm counting on you to test how strong I've gotten."

"We'll be here," Moon says. This time, there's no wavering, only calm confidence. The look makes his stomach twist, but the feeling of determination accompanies the sensation. "Have fun."

He tilts his head up at her in a curt nod, before he walks off to catch up to Hala. Guzma breathes, for the first time, in a long time.


End file.
